Terminator: The Savannah Chronicles
by masked-spangler
Summary: Post 'Born to Run.' Follows the fate of Sarah Connor, James Ellison and Savannah Weaver. Is Savannah doomed to a life on the run? Is Ellison a friend or foe? And is Sarah fated, again, to be the mother of The Future? Now complete!
1. Chapter 1

Part 1: The Cabin

There is a body this time. James Ellison, in shock, in atonement, made sure there would be a body before he sent them to the cabin to wait things out. Sarah Connor was dead again. For good, this time.

She's let Savannah keep her name. Simpler that way. The little girl has 'spoken' only in nods and head shakes since the day that Ellison sat her on his knee in the smoking ruins of Zeira Corp's basement lab and told her she was going away for awhile, going away with Aunt Sarah to a cabin where Uncle James used to spend his summers when he was a boy. To Sarah, he only said 'wait for me.'

She is tempted, every day, not to. But he phones her, with punishing regularity, on a phone he has provided for this purpose. 'This isn't done,' he tells her again and again. 'You wait for me. This isn't done.' She is still angry. But she shut him out once before, and it led to Weaver, to Skynet, to this. To John, leaving her. To her, leaving him. 'Don't shut me out again,' he tells her. 'Let me help this time. For Savannah. For you.'

They wait at the cabin. Savannah has a doll, and she talks to it in whispers when she thinks that Sarah isn't listening. She wordlessly accepts the bowls of cereal, of canned soup, of canned spaghetti that Sarah finds in the cabin and reheats for her. Sarah herself does not eat the bowls of food, and loses five more pounds in the first week they spend there.

One day, when he phones as usual, he tells her he's coming. She asks him to bring her some bread. She wants real food again, food you can't get in a can. She has stopped grieving. Part of her knows that John is ready, wherever he is. That somewhere in the future, he is taking charge, stepping up, fulfilling his destiny. He could not do this with her in tow, and part of her knows this. Part of her also knows that he'll send someone back for her. Or, if he doesn't, someone else will. Someone dangerous. She has to start training again, training Ellison, training Savannah. She has to stop wasting away and resume her work. John may have left her to fulfill his own destiny, but hers is still, forever, here and now, before the end comes. Stop SkyNet. Save John.

--

It's raining, and Savannah has a fear of lightning. This is a revelation to her. The storm, now in its third day, has finally brought down the little girl's defenses, and in her terror, she has come fleeing into Sarah's arms. Sarah holds her, speaks softly, resists the urge to start the training now and tell the child what greater terrors there are out there than this. There is time for that later, when Ellison comes. When he brings her food. When he brings her tools. When he brings her weapons. Time for that later.

She almost jumps out of her skin when she hears the truck coming up the driveway, and nearly jumps out of her skin again when it is Savannah who reaches out a hand to comfort her this time. She reaches for a gun, then remembers that she doesn't have one. Her hands flail, and Savannah thrusts out her doll in mute offering. Her heart doesn't stop racing until she sees Ellison, in profile, working his key into the lock.

And he, in turn, seems just as relieved that she is there waiting for him.

"I thought you'd run," he says. He is carrying several paper bags, sodden from rain, and puts them down gingerly, eyes on her.

"You asked me to wait for you."

"I did. But I thought you'd run."

"Wanted to."

"I know you did."

His tone is gentle---a little too gentle, a little too nice. Like he is talking to a crazy person, afraid he will spook her away...

He kneels down to Savannah's eye level, wraps her in a hug. "Savannah."

"Uncle James!"

"You doing okay out here?"

"I miss Mommy."

"I know."

"That wasn't her though, was it? The...the Mommy who left...that wasn't really her, I think."

"No, Savannah. It wasn't. You doing okay out here?"

"I guess so. Will we stay out here for long?"

He looks at Sarah again. "Aunt Sarah and I are going to talk about that. Do you want to stay here, Savannah?"

She wriggles out of his arms. "It's time for lunch now. Want some soup?"

They settle Savannah in the bedroom, sprawled out on some blankets on the bed, with a book, her doll and a tv dinner tray. Then he joins Sarah in the kitchen, dishes her out a bowl of soup and waits for her to say something.

She pushes the spoon around in the bowl for a second. Then: "I hate food from a can."

He spills open one of the damp paper bags, pulls out loaf after loaf of supermarket bread, an assortment. Whole wheat, rye, seven-grain...

"I didn't know what you wanted," he said.

The hunger hits her at once, sudden, painful, as much emotion as physical needs, and she lunges for the nearest package, ripping open the plastic with her teeth, cramming chunks of dough into her mouth with feral urgency. He pushes the soup in front of her again, but she's in her own world, and she's half a loaf in before she comes up for air, eyes widening, hands fisting around the crinkly wrapper, body shaking with hunger and grief and need. He wraps her in his arms and she is weeping, finally feeling John's loss.

He hopes she will eat some soup before she collapses. But as the sobbing tapers off, she sniffles, then goes limp in his arms. He tucks her on the couch with a blanket then sits, watching her. Waiting. There is much to discuss.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2: Mr. Fur

It is dark again, and he feels a tiny hand on his knee.

"She's sleeping now," Savannah says.

"Yes. She has been sleeping for awhile."

"She didn't sleep before. You got her sleeping."

"Yes, I did. Has she...have you..."

"I like her," Savannah says. "She's sad."

"Yes."

"She lost someone."

"She did, yes. Her son. He went away."

"She hasn't got anyone. I haven't either."

"You have me, Savannah."

"Does she have you too?"

"If she wants to have me. We still have to talk about that."

"I think she'll want to. She's sad."

"It's not that simple."

Savannah holds her up her doll. It's a stuffed monkey. He has seen her with it before. "She has me. And Mr. Fur. He's already made things better."

He hoists her onto his lap. "Is that so?"

She nods, her little head bobbing seriously. "I talk to him. And he tells me things will be okay."

She holds him aloft, pantomimes talking. "It's all right, Savannah," she says. Her voice is a clipped, robotic monotone. "You'll be safe there. I'll send someone. He'll protect you, and you'll be safe."

It takes a moment for the implication to sink in, and when it does, it takes a conscious effort for him to keep his voice neutral as he clarifies. "He said that to you?"

"Uh huh. He says a lot of things."

"He actually, literally said it to you? Like, with a voice that you heard?"

"Well, of course I heard it! He wouldn't be talking if you couldn't hear..."

"Could I hear him, Savannah?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because, silly! He is Mr. Fur and he only talks to me. That's what makes him my special friend."

"Right. Savannah, I'm going to wake her up now. Can you play in the bedroom for awhile?"

"Okay."

"And can I keep Mr. Fur for a few minutes? I...I want to tell Aunt Sarah how great he's been."

Savannah shrugged, climbed down from his lap, already interested in other things. "I haven't looked in your shopping bags? Can I? Can I look?"

He nods. "Go find the cookies. Have a snack. Then play for awhile, okay? I'll call you when dinner is ready."

He rouses Sarah gently, already turning Mr. Fur over in his hands, feelings its plushy body, wondering where Catherine Weaver has hidden the bug.

--

She opens her eyes, and at once, her body tenses and her eyes track him warily as he paces in front of her.

He waits for her to speak first. She doesn't, just follows him with that blank, suspicious stare.

"We need to talk," he says at last.

"There is a bug in the doll."

"You heard that?"

"I hear a lot of things. So who is it from, Ellison? Weaver? Her 'boy' John Henry? You?"

"I'm on your side," he snaps. This sentiment has lost some of its patience in the numerous repeating of it he has done these last weeks. Even by phone, she has been angry, skittish, paranoid. It has surprised him that a woman as tough as she is has been so fragile underneath it all and needed so much comforting. He is still trying to wrap his head around the magnitude of what she has been through...

"So, have you found it yet?"

"I'm surprised you didn't," he says.

She sits up and gives him an odd look. "Yeah. I'm surprised about that too."

"Have you been okay, Sarah?"

"First things first. Did you find it?"

She gives him a minute, snatches the monkey from his hands, traces her thumb around its seams and creases. Then pulls, hard, on its floppy head. It falls off into her hands and she reaches into the cavity of its neck and pulls out a transceiver.

"Stand back," she says. And crushes it between her palms. There is a sizzling noise and bits of plastic fall away when she moves her hands again. There is a scorch mark on her palm.

"She'll wonder why he won't talk anymore," he says.

"That'll be the least of the things she'll have to wonder about."

His heart flutters. "So, you're planning to take her away, like you took John?"

"She isn't safe. I've told you that already."

He reaches into his travel bag, pulls out an envelope, hands it to her.

"Passports," he says. "There is one for me in there too. If you'll have me."

He sees the fight on her face, puts a hand on her knee. "I've lost people too. Let me in, Sarah. Let me help. Let me fight. It's bigger than you. Bigger than us."

"Ellison..."

"Don't tell me I don't understand."

"You don't."

"And don't tell me that in the end, it's all on you."

"It is."

"It's bigger than you. Bigger than us."

"You have no idea."

"Then teach me, just like you taught John, just like you're going to teach her. Teach me. Let me join you, Sarah. When Judgement Day comes, I want to live too. Let me join. Let me fight."

She closes her eyes, clearly fighting memories. Charley. Derek. Others she's lost. John...

"My rules," she says.

"Yes. Fine."

"You follow my rules."

"I will."

"And if you double-cross me, so help me god..."

"I know what's out there," he says.

"I know better."

"I know you do. Teach me."

She pulls out the passports. James Johnson. Sarah Johnson. Savannah Johnson. She traces her finger over the the familiar letters. J-o-h-n. Recognizes that for the gesture it is intended to be.

"I kept the names the same," he says. "Simpler that way."

He's already learning.

--


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3: The Johnson Family

He sews Savannah's monkey back together while Sarah fixes dinner. He gave her a choice between the two chores; he is trying to be as careful with her as he can while he earns her trust again. Deferring, as he said he would. He hears the skillet sizzle and hears her flipping pancakes. She still looks tired and weak.

Savannah bounces in, picks up the monkey, does not seem to notice there is anything different about him. She's smiling, relaxed, full of energy. He is not sure whether that's from seeing him again herself, or from the effect he's had on Sarah, who has been her caretaker all these days. Sarah still seems wary to him. Still fragile, still sad. But from Savannah's point of view, he made her eat. He made her sleep. This is progress.

"We're having pancakes," Savannah says. She's been bounding back and forth between the kitchen and the living room, Sarah and himself, taking it all in. "Aunt Sarah let me stir."

"That's great, Savannah. Can we...can we talk for a second?"

"Sure!"

He winces a little at her innocent joy. They will crush this joy, now or very soon. They will tell her what is to come and start training her for it. He knows this is necessary. He knows that her survival, that their survival collectively, depends on this. But at this moment, she is innocent joy and it breaks his heart to have to stomp that out of her.

He puts her new passport in the her tiny hands, lets her look at it. "Do you know what that is, Savannah?"

"It has my picture," she says. "And my name. Savannah...oh. That's different. They have the rest of it wrong, Uncle James."

"Can you read it for me?"

"J---jo-hen-nee-son..."

"Johnson," he says.

"Oh! Like the boy! The one who..." Her face darkens. "Aunt Sarah."

"Yes. She is using this name now, because of her son. And we're going to use it too, Savannah."

"Why?"

"Because we are going on a trip together. And when you go on a trip with other people, it's easier if you use the same name."

She accepts this explanation. "Okay. When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow," he says.

But Sarah comes in, puts plates down in front of them, shakes her head. "Tonight. We eat, then we leave."

"Now?" he protests.

"There was a tracker. We leave as soon as we can pack up the car."

"But..."

"I've slept already," she says. "I'll drive first."

"Sarah..."

"No. You want to protect her. That's sweet. You want to keep her innocent. But she has to know."

She turns to the little girl, says what she says with more gentleness than he thought she would. "Savannah. You know about the machines."

The little girl smiles through a mouthful of pancake. "John Henry! He's my friend."

"He was built to be your friend. He was built to be your friend because the other ones aren't, Savannah. The other machines----and there are other ones, there are other ones now and there will be more later---they aren't. They'll hurt you."

She frowns. "But John Henry..."

"John Henry is gone, Savannah. I don't know where he went or what he's doing. But he and...your mom...they left you with Uncle James and me so we could protect you, from the other ones. The bad ones. The ones who want to hurt you."

"But I didn't do anything wrong!"

"I know you didn't."

"So why do they want to hurt me?"

"They want to hurt everyone. It's what they were built to do, Savannah. What they are made for."

The girl clutches the monkey, tears leaking out of her eyes. "I'm scared. I don't like what we're talking about."

"Hey." Sarah takes that tiny little face in her hands, brushes the tears away with surprisingly maternal instinct. "Hey, Savannah. We're in this together, okay? You and me and him, we're in this together. And we'll stop them. I swore to John, to my son, that we would, and we will. We'll stop them. We'll teach you how to stop them. Do you understand me?"

"I think so."

"We'll leave tonight. There is a safe house we can go to while we plan our next move," she says to him. "There is infrastructure here. They've sent people back. You'll be surprised at how much is here already."

"Go play, Savannah," he says.

She crams one more bite of pancake into her mouth, then bolts from the table, monkey in hand. Sarah turns to him, eyes serious.

"Zeira Corp?" she asks.

"Burned to the ground. Seems the plane crash set off an electrical fire, sent the whole place up in flames..."

Her mouth quirks up a little. "Really? An electrical fire?"

"No, not really."

"You're learning."

"As I've been telling you."

"And the AI? Or what's left of it?"

"I got the cyborg out before the investigators came. Buried it."

"Not good enough. We'll have to go back."

"And there is a person we'll have to keep an eye on," he says.

"Oh?"

"Mr. Murch. He was in IT, worked closely on the John Henry project. Hasn't been seen since..."

"Crap."

"Yeah. You'll need to lay low for awhile. I mean, you're dead...there was a body and everything this time...but still..."

"And Savannah?"

"I have her, good and legal. Weaver, she...she'd been planning, I guess..."

She nods to the passports. "So why the name change?"

"Skynet," he says. "From what you've told me, it's best to stay off their radar. If they send someone back for her..."

"They already have."

"Well, there you go. We'd best stay off the radar."

"It's going to be hard for you to disappear completely."

"You did it once."

"I was nineteen. No ties, no...no family...it'll be harder for you."

"Maybe I know some tricks."

"Maybe you do. I'm going to ask you, one more time. Do you know...really know, really understand...what you're getting yourself into?"

"Did you?"

"I learned. My life depended on it."

"Mine does too. Maybe not this second, tomorrow, next month...but eventually. Eventually all our lives will. Isn't that what you've been telling me?"

She exhales. "You wash dishes. I'll start packing up. You're in it now, James Ellison. God help us all if I've made the wrong decision, but you're in it now. For better or worse."

It strikes him, as he's washing up, how like a marriage vow that sounds. And how, to someone like her, it would be just as unbreakable as a holy sacrament would be to someone like him.


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4: No Fate But What We Subtly Influence

They are halfway to Los Angeles before she stops the car.

"I can't drive anymore," she says.

He has been sleeping. He's groggy, but his head clears as he takes in, with alarm, her pinched, glassy eyes.

"Tired?"

"Something like that. God, my head is killing me."

"There should be a motel. It's the interstate. There will be a motel."

"We...we have to keep moving..."

"We did move. And now, we'll move to a motel."

She stiffens. "You don't understand."

"Stop saying that."

"Well, stop pissing me off. You really don't understand, you know. If you did, you wouldn't still be so relaxed about this. Let's stop? At a motel? This is WAR, Ellison. War! Do you get that?"

"There is more than way way to fight a war, Sarah. More than one way to be a general. Maybe that's why you're still back here and not where he is. Maybe that's what you need to do differently this time. Trust me."

"I don't trust anybody. We have to keep moving."

"And we will. We'll keep moving straight to the next motel, where we'll sleep, get in a good breakfast and then make our plans. Got it?"

She sinks back into the seat, closes her eyes. Winces. "I hate you."

"Noted. Now, move over. I need to drive."

He catches her arm as she climbs over him to the passenger side, and her hand is clammy and trembling. He brushes her cheek and feels flushness. Damn, she's sick.

"Sarah?"

"Shut it, Ellison. Just drive."

She slumps beside him, and her breathing jolts a little, too slow, too careful, too raspy for his liking. By the time he spots the exit, gets them off the interstate and toward a motel, she's drawn up her knees and has dropped her head between them, hands clenched at her sides, knuckles white with tension.

"Sarah?"

"Stop...talking...just...drive..."

He pulls into the motel parking lot. Then leans over and pushes open her door. She nearly falls over and vomits onto the pavement.

He peeks into the back seat. Savannah's still sleeping. "Stay here," he tells Sarah. Can you stay here for a second?"

She retches weakly, spits, then tries to straighten herself. "Yes."

He gathers what bags he can, carries them in with him and signs for a room. He is beginning to assimilate her paranoia, and does not take the desk clerk up on his offer to take their bags up. He goes himself, deposits their things and locks the door after him, then goes out to the car to get the girls. Savannah is still sleeping. Sarah looks like death. He can only carry one of them. Should he wake Savannah?

But she awakens on her own when he clicks the door open, stretching like a cat and beaming him a beatific smile as she clutches her monkey and rises to alertness.

"Hey, Uncle James."

"Hi, Savannah."

"Are we here?"

"For now. We'll move again soon. We have some things to do first."

"Okay."

"Aunt Sarah is...she's not feeling great, Savannah. I'll need to help her get inside. We'll have to take care of her."

Savannah peeks into the front seat, and he hears her gasp as she takes in the state of things. Sarah has worsened remarkably quickly, and is barely holding it together up there. She resists a little when he picks her up, then twitches again and goes limp in his arms.

He barely even looks to see Savannah following. He feels nothing but his feet moving one step at a time, and her dead weight in his arms. And then they are at the room again, and he has her on the bed, and he's looking at Savannah and, at last, wondering just what he's gotten himself into.

--

There is a knock on the door, and on the bed, Sarah flinches. "Ellison..."

"Let me," he says. He stares out the peephole. It's the desk clerk, with a tentative smile and a large bag in his hands.

"I need to speak with Sarah Connor," the clerk says.

This is not the name he has used to register the room. He fingers his gun, but the boy continues. "John sent me. I know what's going on, Mr. Ellison. You need my help."

He looks at Sarah. She shakes her head. He shrugs, then opens the door, ignoring the murder in her eyes. She will deal with his defiance later, no doubt. If they live.

The boy puts the bag down on the second twin bed, puts his hands up, turns around slowly. Lets himself be patted down.

"We need to talk," he says. "But first things first." He opens the bag, and it's full of bottles, pills, bandages, medical supplies of every type. He pulls out a cold compress, wraps it in a towel, presses it on Sarah's face.

"Hello, Mrs. Connor. My name is Edward. I'm here to help you."

She flinches, a token struggle, for show. But the cold compress is too soothing, and she closes her eyes, stills, lets the boy minister to her. After a moment, the visitor---Edward---motions Savannah over, shows her how to hold the cold compress in place, then moves away, rummaging in his bag again. He opens a bottle, places a pill under her tongue ('Just Tylenol,' he says. 'For the fever...') then hooks up a saline IV.

"She's going to throw up a few more times," he says. "You'll be on your way faster if you don't let her get dehydrated too."

"How did you know we'd be here? How did you know she'd be sick?"

"I told you, John sent me. Not for good, you understand. Yours for the night, but I do have another mission here, and I'll be leaving for it as soon as you guys are set."

"What is it?"

"Mr. Murch," he says. "A friend of yours, I believe, Mr. Ellison."

"Are you going to kill him?"

"Not yet. I'm going to recruit him, hire him. Keep an eye on him."

"Does he build Skynet?"

"Maybe. It doesn't quite...it's not one person. And it's not...we don't just...we don't just go and take people out, you know? We were, until John came along. But he's the one who changed everything."

He thinks of the teenaged boy he knew, tries to picture him changing the world. "How?"

"He's the only one who's really seen what time travel does. He's met people who have come back and changed things and then sent other people back from futures where things were different. Where things were worse. Where they had taken out one player and a worse one had come along. Fate likes to have its way, Mr. Ellison. A brute assault on destiny? That never ends well. It changes things in all the wrong ways. And once we figured that out, with John, we changed things too."

"How so?"

"We send people back, but for longer-term assignment. Like me. I wasn't sent back to kill Murch. Not yet, anyway. I was sent back to keep him away from certain people and direct him toward certain other ones. To make sure, over months, over years, that he goes toward our side, not theirs."

"And how do we play into this?"

"You don't. Well, you do, but as I said, we've learned that it's not 'no fate but what you make' so much 'no fate but what you subtly influence.' We know some things, from what certain...survivors...have told us..."

"Do you mean Savannah?"

"I wasn't told from who. Look, we don't do it that way anymore. All I know is, I have a mission. And part of that is to stay here, tonight, with you before we go our separate ways. I have a message for her, when she's ready for it."

"I have a lot of questions for you."

"They are not mine to answer. It doesn't work that way. I have a message for you too, Mr. Ellison."

"Oh?"

"He made me memorize it exactly. He said 'Thank you. Be strong. And don't let them take your faith away from you. God is not as far away as you think he is.' I'll be back in the morning, to check on her."

And Edward was gone, leaving behind the bag of bottles and pills and cold compresses. He checks on Sarah before falling asleep himself, and she's still twitchy and overly warm. It's not until he's tucked into bed himself that it occurs to him to wonder if the 'they' Edward was referring to was Sarah and Savannah, or the machines.

--


	5. Chapter 5

Part 5: The Longest Night

He's up again, an hour later, when he hears her struggling. Savannah is still tucked in beside her, and through some small miracle, has stayed sleeping. But Sarah is a mess---hair clumped in frantic, sweat-spiked strings, face streaked with blushes of fever and stress and tears. He resigns himself to a sleepless night, vacates his own bed, smoothes down the sheets and then gently extracts Savannah from Sarah's arms and settles her into the bed he has just vacated. He pulls another cold compress from the bar fridge and wraps it in a towel. Then lays down beside her and presses it onto her cheek.

She moans and twitches beside him, her skin practically steaming. He wonders if this is more of a stress reaction than an actual illness. He has seen this kind of thing before...

"Sarah," he says. He keeps his voice as soft, as gentle as he can. "Talk to me."

"Uhhhhhhhh..."

"Um hm."

"Hate this."

"I bet."

He adjusts the cold compress, and she whimpers again.

"You let him in," she says after a moment.

"Hmmm?"

"You looked at me. I shook my head. You let him in."

"Yes."

"Told you...to do it my way..."

"And I told you to trust me," he says. "If you can give me an estimate, for how long that will take..."

"Don't know," she says. "I've never...it's never been about that. With anyone."

"Not even Charley?"

"Hell no. When he...got close enough, I...sent him away..."

"And how did that work out for you?"

He adjusts the cold compress, and she winces, but more from the memory this time. "Hurt me. Killed him."

"So does that tell you something? That maybe you should try something different this time?"

"Doesn't tell me...anything yet. Too sick to think. Too sick...to talk..."

"Nice try. You're a soldier, underneath it all. You're fighting this, just like you fight everything."

"And you're a cop, underneath it all. You'd better learn to be a soldier, or..."

She moans again, then rolls over and throws up into the garbage can. Second time tonight. He was warned about this. He cleans her up, then checks the IV, changes the bag. Gives her another Tylenol.

"Cry if you want to," he says. "You look like you've earned that much."

She shakes her head, winces, collapses back onto the pillow. "Distract me," she says. "Talk to me. Anything."

"Talk to you about what?"

"Convince me how you're going to be a soldier now."

"Maybe I don't have to be a soldier. Maybe it will be useful to have a cop."

"No. Cops are just people. And people die."

"Because they don't follow orders?"

"Because they don't *get* it."

He sighs. "Are we going to spend the rest of Savannah's childhood arguing about this?"

"There won't be a childhood. For her, for anyone. Unless we stop them. Unless *I* stop them."

He sees how it is. Control, for her, is sanity. And every time he threatens that, she pushes him away...

"Unless *we* stop them," he says. "And don't do that again."

She must see in his eyes that he has figured out the game because she nods, then closes her eyes.

"I'm going to throw up again."

He braces himself. It's going to be a long night.

--

It gets worse before it gets better. Her body is sticky, the sheets slick and damp, and he goes through every towel they have trying to keep her dry and comfortable. She's hot, then she's cold, then she's freezing, but flushed with a fever so high that her skin almost sizzles when he touches it with the cold compresses. He doesn't even try to get her drinking. He knows she won't keep anything down, and he trusts that the IV is doing its job. Thank goodness for their well-stocked visitor, or they would have had to hit a hospital by now.

Before dawn, her fever breaks. He helps her to the bathroom, averts his eyes while she peels off sweaty clothes. There is a full tub, thank goodness. He gets the water going, then sits, his back up against the tub, his eyes away from her, and lets her clean herself up. She shuts off the water herself and he passes her a robe. He waits until she has it on before he turns around again to help her.

He peels back the sheets, lines the bed with their last clean towel, sets her down again. She falls at once into a deep, dreamless sleep and stays that way until their visitor arrives.

--

It's nearly lunchtime. He has had Savannah up for hours already, fed her breakfast from the remains of the provisions he had brought to the cabin. She's been quiet. Now that the novelty of his arrival has worn off, she's back to her post-traumatic silence, and while she's occupied herself with colouring books, Mr. Fur and a webkinz game on his laptop computer, she keeps stealing glances at Sarah.

He hears room service trays jangling in the corridor, and a knock on their door, just as Sarah starts to stir at last. He motions to Savannah to follow him, stay behind him under his cover, and checks the door before he opens it. Edward, their new friend. He wheels in a room service tray, then heads straight for Sarah.

"Hi, Mrs. Connor."

"Don't call me that."

"All right. Mrs. Johnson, than. How are you feeling?"

"Really, really thirsty."

He opens a bottle of juice, gives her a tiny sip, pulls the bottle away when she reaches for it. "Let's not over-do things just yet. Change out the IV, Mr. Ellison. Give her one more bag before you try her on food, okay?"

Edward sticks a thermometer in her mouth, checks the reading, pops another Tylenol under her tongue. "You'd better stay here one more night. This is worse than I thought it would be."

"And how bad was that?" she asks him.

"Better than it is."

"Yeah. You usually hope it's better."

"And you usually find that it's not?" Edward asks her. "Look, Sarah...can I call you that? That's part of the message. People matter. Didn't you tell him that, once?"

"Say what you came here to say."

The boy straightens. "He made me memorize it exactly. 'I love you. That's the most important thing. And there are things that happened which I appreciate better now that I've seen what I've seen. People matter. If you forget that, they'll win, and nothing you can do will stop them. You know what to do. You've done it already. But you need to remember that people matter. Stop Skynet. Help Ellison. Protect Savannah. But don't be afraid to live a little too, because people matter, and that's worth more than you might think from where you are. You matter too. Be strong. Be brave. I'll wait for you, wherever I am, forever.' That's the message."

She's crying, deep, wet sobs that shake her still-healing body and make the tears run again. Savannah comes over, crawls into bed beside her, lays her head on Sarah's chest and waits for her. But she looks up at Edward before he turns to go.

"Is there a message for me?" she asks him.

"There is," Edward says. He nods to Sarah. "But she's the one who it will be from."

And he's gone.

--


	6. Chapter 6

Part 6: Parting Gifts

It takes only a second to decide to chase after Edward. He looks at Savannah, looks at Sarah, and Savannah has already caught his drift and crawled in beside her, clutching her hand, murmuring soothing things. Meeting his eye with a gentle nod. I've got it here.

He briefly winces, in his head, for her already fading innocence, but Sarah is right. He has to think like a soldier now, put sentiment aside in favour of skills, of information. He takes the stairs four at a time, nearly crashes into Edward.

"Figured you'd run," the boy says with a smirk.

He slams him hard against the wall, having his own stress reaction. "You did, did you? What, is this some kind of joke to you? Because I promise you, it isn't to me."

"Hey, hey, chill, it's not to me either. Look, I have orders here. There is only so much I'm supposed to tell you."

He tries to embrace this soldier mentality, embrace the concept of orders, and respect for doing only that. But it's like the cyborgs, isn't it? They are programmed to only follow one command, and that's what got them into this in the first place...

"No," he says. "People are different."

It takes Edward a moment to catch his drift. "Oh, yeah. Yeah, they are. And that's exactly what we're trying to protect. Let me ask you something. She ever tell you when it's supposed to be?"

"When what's supposed to be?"

"The end, man. J-Day. The big J."

"No. When?"

"Not as soon as she thinks. Not as far away as you probably do. Would it help you to know an exact specific moment?"

"Anything you can tell us about the future would help me."

"No it wouldn't. Because for you, it hasn't happened yet. And what choices you make now are going to change the way it plays out. The date he had in his head, when he jumped----that's not the date it happened. Me, standing here, telling you, that might bump it up or down some more."

"Then give me other dates," he says. "Dates other things happen. Things I need to know about."

"It doesn't quite work that way. Like I said, you kill off one bad guy and another will rise up to take his place. When it counts? You'll get your messages. But you've got to know too that there are some trials they'll need to endure make them who they're going to be."

"Give me a ballpark," he pleads. "The next year or so. Where do we go? Who do we look for?"

"Now, this," Edward says. "Is why she's got to be the leader."

"Because she'd know better than to ask you that?"

"Because she wouldn't need to. She has her lead already. I do have one for you, though. One freebie. Check your car, Ellison. I've saved you a trip back to the city."

Edward walks away. He lets him go this time. Then he pops the hatch of his trunk and finds the crumpled corpse of John Connor's cyborg. Cameron.

--

He goes back to their room, and she's sleeping again. It does not look like dreamless, easy rest. But for now, he'll take it. Savannah is curled up beside her, clutching the monkey and twitching every time Sarah moves.

"She's not a very good sleeper," Savannah says.

"No, she isn't. Would you like to come for a ride, Savannah?"

The desk clerk---the real one, now that Edward's gone---has told him of a strip mall just up the road. This is one of those fortunate interstate exits that has a town at the end of it. There is a Walmart, an ice cream parlour, a video store. If they are going to be holed up here for more than a day or so, there are some things he needs.

"Sure!" Savannah says. "Will she..."

"We'll be back for her."

He shakes Sarah's arm, whispers to her. He isn't sure she hears him. There is a pad by the phone, and he scribbles a short note, then packs up Savannah.

The Walmart is his first stop. He picks up some TV dinners, some protein bars, a box of fruit roll ups for Savannah. He lets her pick out a new colouring book. It has a small, square robot on its front, and a colourful Disney logo. The irony does not escape him.

They go to the McDonalds and he buys one of everything, not sure what Sarah will like. And on their way out, he stops at the video store, and picks up every movie he can find about robots.

--

She's awake when they return to their room, and she's dressed in a plain white tank top and black capris. She has a gun busted open on the bed, and she's putting it back together again.

"Well, this is nice," he says. "Seeing you up and about again."

He puts down the take-out, and she eyes it warily, a hand resting protectively on her apparently still-queasy stomach. He takes out a protein bar instead, unwraps it, offers her a bite.

"I see you want me to throw up again," she says.

He shrugs, wraps it up, sticks it back in the bag. "Good to have you seeing anything. You were pretty out of it."

"It happens. Looks like you've kept busy."

He passes the tv dinners to Savannah, who stacks them in the little bar fridge. "We needed some things. Edward suggested we might need a few things."

"And may I ask, out of curiosity, how you paid for those things?"

He realizes, as she sees it on his face, the mistake he's made.

"Wallet," she snaps.

He passes it over. She pulls out his bank card, his credit card, his employee ID from Zeira Corp. "Damn it, Ellison!"

"Sarah..."

"Damn it, damn it, damn it! You still don't get it, do you?"

"I get it," he says. "I just..."

"You didn't think! Because you haven't had to yet! Pack it up," she says, turning to Savannah. "Pack it all up. We're out of here."

"Sarah, can you just..."

"No. No, I can't. You follow my rules. You do as I say. Or, so help me, you will never see me...never see US...again. And when they destroy us, you'll die with the rest of them. Do you understand me? Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

He tries to tell himself that she's still feeling out of sorts, that he needs to cut her some slack for what she's been through already. But he's getting very tired of hearing that threat.

--

They stop at the bank machine, and she makes him withdraw as much as he can from his account and his credit card before they start driving again.

"Do you have access to any of Catherine Weaver's money?" she asks him when they're underway.

"I don't know," he says. "I may, actually. Or Savannah might, at some point in time."

"Find out," she says. "As soon as you can. This disappearing of yours won't happen overnight, you know. We'll need to think about this. And I have been making a list..."

She pauses, sucks in a breath as they go over a speed bump. He pulls over and feels her forehead. "You're still warm."

"I'm fine. Drive."

"Sarah..."

"Look, you want to make me feel better? Put some distance between me and that trackable credit card transaction, okay? Just drive, Ellison."

She has given him a safe house. It will be half a day before they get there. He wonders if she'll hold up for the car ride...

"I have to go to the bathroom," Savannah says.

They stop again, at another gas station. Sarah goes in with her. They don't come out for a long time, and he isn't completely surprised when he goes in to check on them and finds Savannah throwing up too. He is relieved, actually. It means that it's only a bug they have to worry about.

--


	7. Chapter 7

Part 7: Hunkering Down

She insists they push on to the safe house. She can barely keep her head up when they're moving, and Savannah goes down as fast and as hard as Sarah had the day before. Seeing Savannah in the same pain seems to have re-ignited Sarah's misery, and she crawls into the back seat, lies down and spoons Savannah up beside her.

"We should stop," he says again.

"It'll be worse if we do and then we have to move again," she says. "Just get us somewhere we can be for awhile."

"But Savannah..."

"We'll manage. It'll be over soon." This last, she croons into Savannah's ear. "It'll be over soon. Just hang in, okay? It'll be over soon..."

He tunes out the sounds of their sickness, and drives. He is prepared to pull the cop card if they get pulled over, but at last, the fates are with them, and the road is clear. He makes good time, and gets them to the safe house just before sunset. It's a trailer, a little small for three of them, but it's isolated, desert as far as the eye can see, and he supposes that's what they need right now, especially with only one of them---him---in his right mind at the moment.

He takes in some bags, comes back out again and finds both back doors open, one head leaning out of each of them. Sarah is only dry heaves, thank goodness, but Savannah has spent their little trip suffering, and he's happy to get them inside. Happier still that Sarah makes it indoors under her own power and snarls when he suggests she take another turn with the IV. She resists too his suggestion that they hook Savannah up. The girl has only thrown up twice, although she is weak and miserable.

There are two beds and a couch. He picks the bigger bed, peels both of them down to their underclothes and tucks them into it together. They sleep.

--

He heats a microwave dinner and tucks himself in with the laptop and the stack of movies from the video store. The first one has Will Smith in it, and the robots kill the people. The second one is called Transformers. He remembers John Henry had a toy with this name. In a novel variation on the theme, the robots in this one are killing factions of other robots.

He loses track of time somewhere around the third DVD, and in the haze of the laptop's glow, he sees Sarah behind him, dressed again in the tank top and capris. She's holding a cup of tea and looking much improved.

"Do you get it now?"

She's calm when she asks him, but he senses the edge underneath her question.

"I mean, is this helping you?" she gently prods, nodding at the flickering images on the laptop. "Do you see?"

He folds down the screen, scoots over, motions for her to sit. "You don't watch one of them take out a whole SWAT team without getting it, Sarah. You don't survive that kind of thing and not see."

"Okay. But yet, you still seem to think we can live our lives. Go about our business. How are you not understanding..."

"How is that you're not? I got a message too, Sarah. Last night, while you were out. And do you know what your son sent that boy back to tell me? He told me God is not as far away as I think he is."

"I don't believe in God."

"But you believe in Savannah. You believe she is an innocence worth saving. You believe there is value to this life of ours, and don't shake your head at me, because if you didn't believe it, you wouldn't fight so hard to save us. There is God in that too."

She closes her eyes, brings the mug to her face. She doesn't drink, but lets the steam caress her cheeks.

"Okay," she says. "There is God in that too. But damn it, Ellison, you can't just go off, and..." She puts the mugs down, twists her hands, tries to stop fidgeting. "I'm trying to be patient, I am. But there is so much at stake here, and I'm not used to doing this with people."

"People matter."

"That's for me to work on. Look, you see how this has been for me, right? Just me. Just John."

"And Charley."

"He died."

"And Derek."

"Betrayed me. And then died. I'll ask you again. Do you see how this has been for me? I can't let people in. I can't. As much for their protection as for mine."

"It's different now, though. You, here. Him, there. You don't need to protect him."

"No. I have someone new to protect. It never ends. Just like them."

"That's very pessimistic."

"That's reality. That's how it's been for me ever since the day Kyle Reese walked into my life and changed it forever. That's *life,* Ellison. And I can't just put that aside, for you, for her, and pretend it isn't there."

"Why not?"

She shakes her head. "You don't get it. You don't." She runs her fingers through his pile of DVDs. "Find me one good one," she says. "Find me one who isn't bad. Find me one who doesn't spend the whole movie blowing things up and going after all the people."

"I haven't watched them all yet. But there is the difference between me and you, I guess."

"What's that?"

"I know he's here. Somewhere in all this badness, the good one is here. Go back to bed, okay? I want you better in the morning. We have work to do."

"Find me one, James."

She's already sleeping again before it hits him that for the first time since all of this happened, she has called him by his Christian name. God is not so far away, after all.

--

He wakes Savannah at sun-up, makes her drink, makes her wash. But she is soft and slack in his arms, and he carries her back to bed, his heart easing a little when Sarah, only half-awake, subconsciously reaches and pulls her close. They are bonding, all of them are. And he to Sarah most of all, in spite of---or perhaps because of--her prickly shell.

They sleep the sleep of the dead for much of the day and into the evening, and he dozes off himself while keeping up his vigil. He's padded the sheets with stolen towels from the hotel. He changes them out as they sweat away the fever. He's changed Savannah's shirt already. He is not certain Sarah would accept such intimacies, so he leaves her.

He watches so many videos that his eyes are bloodshot and sticky when he finally burns out and shuts down. He knows that computer effects cannot convey the horror, but he needs an image to hold in his head, in his dreams, the way Sarah does. He needs her to understand that he's in this too, that he has a stake in this even without a history like hers. And he needs that greater horror in his mind to blunt the trauma of what they will need to do to Savannah to toughen her up for this. For every image of destruction, for every movie death that might someday be real, for every better, for every worse, he reminds himself: there is God in this too.

The sun sets, then rises again on their second day in the desert, and she's back. He comes in from his shower---an outside hook-up, attached to the side of the trailer---and finds her dressed again, actually sipping the tea this time, and going through his large, black bag. Making an inventory.

"Savannah?" he says.

"Woke her. Fed her. Put her back to bed."

"And you?"

"Taking stock. Can we...can we talk about this now? About what we have to do? Zeira Corp..."

"Taken care of. Your buddy Cameron is cooling in the trunk."

"She's not my buddy. And...wait, when did this happen?"

"Parting gift from your son, courtesy of Edward."

"Oh."

"And also told me, by the way, that you knew our next step. That you had a lead already."

"What? Oh, right, Danny Dyson. You heard about that?"

"I can get myself caught up."

"That'll be my job. Priority one, for you, is going to be disappearing. Can you wrap up things with Zeira Corp? Get your hands on Weaver's cash?"

He thinks about this for a minute. "Well, for all intents and purposes, I've already gone private sector. We can funnel Weaver's cash into a shell corporation and make me its employee. I can draw salary."

"As James Ellison or as James Johnson?"

"Those passports have a middle name?"

"Right. James Edward. Edward is my brother's name."

"Great. Eddie Johnson, your new chief of security. Money goes in through wireless transfer. From there, I can direct it. We need to keep as much of it liquid as we can. Gold is fairly portable."

"Are you serious?"

"This is not a vacation, Ellison. Get used to this."

So she is back to last names. Well, fine. Two can play at this. "And speaking of which," he says. "Call me James. Ellison is not the name on my passport."

"Good point. We'll have to start working on our cover story, with Savannah. She'll have to know what to say if we run into people."

"Okay..."

"As close to the truth as we can, I think. Until she learns to lie better."

He winces. "Must she learn that?"

"I can see you still need to watch more movies."

"I can see you've thought about this a lot more than I have."

"And don't you forget it." She arches her back, pops her knuckles. "Wow. Tired already. I suck."

"We're all allowed an off-day. You know, it might help if you ate something."

She makes a face.

"I'll make you dinner. Pancakes?"

"One thing you have to learn about my household, James. I make the pancakes. I *always* make the pancakes."

"French toast than. With raspberry compote."

She bites back a laugh. "Compote?"

"Fresher than jam. Full of antioxidants."

"Bite me."

"And there's that sunny mood that makes this so much easier. One piece, or two?"


	8. Chapter 8

Part 8: Working Things Out

Savannah is perking up by the time the French toast is ready. She's still lazing in the bed, still a little peaky, but she's awake, and she's batting around her monkey and watching him with a smile.

"You and Aunt Sarah worked things out," she says.

"I guess we did. You feel like eating again?"

"Maybe. Is Aunt Sarah making pancakes? She always makes me pancakes when I feel like this."

"She does, does she?" This resilience amazes him. She has already assimilated them into her life and worked them into the fabric of her history. Perhaps he is worrying too much about the effects these events are having on her innocence.

"Would you like to play a game, Savannah?"

"Okay. What kind of game?"

"Pretend I am a stranger, and I'm trying to get to know you better."

"I'm not supposed to tell things about myself to strangers."

"It's a game, Savannah."

"And you're not a stranger anyway. You're Uncle James!"

"Okay. Not a stranger. Maybe...maybe you're in school, and it's your first day."

"Okay."

"So I'm there, and I see you, and I come over. Oh, you're new!"

"Yes," Savannah says. "It's my first day. Pleased to meet you."

"I don't think I've seen you here before. Did you just move here?"

"Yes!"

"Where from?"

"Los Angeles."

"That's a great place to live. Why did you move here?"

"My dad died and then my mom had an accident and went away. I live with Aunt Sarah and Uncle James now."

As close to the truth as we can, he remembers Sarah saying. She's right again. And there is God one more time, telling him that this innocence he has been entrusted with is not in as much danger of being destroyed as he has feared.

--

When the day catches up to him, he sleeps, and for once, he dreams.

He is in a wasteland. There must have been fire, although it's burnt out by now, because the air around him is dry and laced with a whiff of charcoal. There are body parts everywhere, but he sees at a glance that they aren't human ones. Some are bare exoskeleton, a mere cartoon of a hand, a foot, a head. Some have human-like camouflage, but bits of metal joint and sparking wire poke out. There is blood, too, but he can't tell where it came from or who might have left it there.

He starts walking, and soon, he finds himself at the ruins of what looks to be a castle. There is a drawbridge nearly finished swinging down. Catherine Weaver strides atop it, and she is working mightily to force it into place. She has sprouted extra hands for leverage, and is grunting impressively.

Beneath the drawbridge, two men hold back the door through sheer force of will, the edges of the frame beating down on bare, chain-whipped backs. One of the men is Derek Reese. The other he does not recognize, although he senses a family resemblance among the two.

Catherine sees him, stops pushing for a moment. "Evening, James!"

"Ms. Weaver."

"Oh, come on. We're in this together now, aren't we? You're as stuck in this as those Reese boys are. The least you can do is call me Catherine."

"That's not really who you are."

"Very well. Call me John Henry, if you like. The label doesn't much matter at this point, does it?"

He pokes his head under the drawbridge, addresses the men. "You two need a hand down there?"

"We got it," Derek says.

"Little late anyway," says the other. "We're all set up already."

"Managed to keep them back so far," Derek adds. "Which is more than we can say for you."

"Run along now," says the other one. "If you break our focus, she'll break through, and then who knows what will happen?"

"They'll come through," Derek says. "Obviously. They'll come through. "And we all know what that means."

"You know," the other one says. "Some people say they'll come through anyway. Can't keep them back forever...but we've managed so far."

"We've managed because we have a system," Derek says. "We stay just like this. We do just these things. We fight just this fight. And we keep the door from opening. Minute by minute, we keep it exactly this way."

"But what if you could take the door out of the equation?" he wonders.

Derek falters for the tiniest second, and Catherine, on top of him, grows an extra hand and pushes down with a mighty growl. Derek winces, cries out, and kicks out a foot to steady himself. The two of them re-stabilize after a moment, but the door is slightly further lower than it was before.

"Now, look what you've done," Derek complains.

"But what did you mean?" the other one says. "What did you mean, take out the door from things?"

"Well, a door can open. But a wall is solid. A wall would keep them out. You build a wall around the door, and it doesn't matter if they open it or keep it shut. They still can't get you."

"Interesting," the man says. "That's interesting. But we haven't got anyone to build a wall, have we? We've used up everyone we've got on holding back the door..."

"But a wall would be so much more efficient," he says. "You wouldn't have to watch the door so hard anymore."

Catherine and her many hands press down again, and both men scream in agony.

"Buddy, when will you learn?" grits Derek. "You always have to watch the door."

They vanish, in a flurry of struggling noises that will haunt him into awakeness. To his surprise, Catherine immediately stops pushing, melts the extra hands back into herself, and hops down.

"Well," she says, surveying the ruins with displeasure. "Who is going to push me now?"

--

There are tiny fingers shaking him awake. "Uncle James! Uncle James!"

He blinks, shakes off the nightmare. "Savannah?"

"I feel much better now," she says, smiling. "I want breakfast."

"Breakfast? Is it morning already?"

"Yes. And Aunt Sarah ate the leftover French toast before she went out. Can you make me some?"

"Wait a second," he says. "Aunt Sarah went out? When? Why?"

"She was putting her boots on just when Mr. Fur was waking me." Savannah smiles again. "I'm glad she's better now too."

He has his doubts about this, but he lets that ride. "Did she say where she was going?"

But he hears her, even as he is saying it. There is a tree just outside the kitchen window, and she's slung some sort of boxing bag from it and is pummeling it within an inch of his life. He moves Savannah away so she doesn't see it.

"I'll be back in a minute," he says.

"But Uncle James, I'm hungry!"

She looks at him, and she's so small and sweet and innocent, and she's been sick. How can he say no? But out there, that---how can he say not to that either?

--

He makes her the breakfast. But he leaves her inside while she eats, and settles himself on the hardscrabble porch step, halfway between the two of them. For a moment, he wants to rush in, be the saviour, stop this all before somebody gets hurt. But he gets caught up in Sarah's workout after awhile. He had chalked up her little flu bug as much to stress response as anything, and he knows she is grieving John's absence. But there isn't just sadness here. He sees power in her form when she's throwing punches. He sees strength in the way she braces her core before she kicks. And underneath the sadness, he senses unbearable anger too, and it's why it took the fugue state of the fever to wedge the rest of it up to the surface.

He can reach her, on this level. Fighting, he can do. Of course, he has had training in this sort of thing. But he is not sure this is the way to move forward---to kick, to strike, to fight. To only react. He is not sure anger is fuel enough for what they need to do, and he can't get John's message out of his head. God is not as far away as you think he is. This, he is sure, is the key. This is the reality that those cyborgs of hers can never reach them on. He is sure that if he can bring this to their lives somehow, it will give them strength. It will give them peace. And yes, in the end, it will give them a weapon.


	9. Chapter 9

Part 9: A Spiritual Experience

She comes back inside, and she's sweatier than than she was from even the fever, and bleeding---long, deep scrapes on her knuckles, the blood snaking down her palm and up around to her right wrist, which she's holding gingerly at her side when she drops her boxing glove on the table.

First, sickness. Now, sprains. He is all for working through one's stress in a constructive manner, but surely there are saner options here...

He pulls an alcohol wipe out of the medical bag he got from Edward, stretches it between his fingers and slaps it onto her hand as he comes up behind her.

She shrieks and nearly falls. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

She lays her hands out on the table and lets him mop up the blood. "You really tire me out, you know that?" she complains. "You want to *talk* all the time."

"No. I want to talk properly, once, and get it out of the way. But you keep shutting me out."

"I shut everybody out. It isn't personal."

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"No. None of this is funny. That's what I've been trying to tell you."

He considers his next words carefully. "Look, Sarah...have you ever thought about talking to somebody about this? I mean, really talking? A lot has happened, and you must be..."

She shivers, and he can practically see her back go up. "Stop. I'm not crazy."

"I didn't mean..."

"I'm not." There is ice in her voice. "I'm not. Don't ever go there, James."

So he has found another trigger. He wants to push anyway---he can't help thinking that she needs some kind of breakthrough if she's going to get past what's happened, whether she realizes it or not herself---but before he can formulate a comeback, she's talking again, in a voice so quiet, so sad that he can barely make her out.

"I did tell once. And you know where it got me."

"Yes," he says. "I read about your time at Pescadero State."

"Reading about it is not the same thing."

"So tell me about it."

"Telling's not the same thing either. Oh, look at you. You feel sorry for me now. Well, you know what? I'm sick of sorry." She picks off the antiseptic wipe, fingers curling, fist-like, as she talks. "I'm sick of it, James. You want to talk. You want to process. You want to *understand.*"

"Is there something wrong with understanding?"

"There is something impossible about it. Honestly, did you really think that you could swoop in and *talk* and I was just going to process 16 years of this into some neat little catharsis, then ride off into the sunset and be okay? With you?"

Hearing her say it that way, it embarrasses him to admit that yes, that is exactly what he thought. But he can't let go of this. "You learned to rely on yourself," he tells her. "Then you taught John and you learned to rely on him. Is it so hard to think you might teach me also, and learn to rely on me?"

She looks at him, her eyes suddenly softening as she sees the sincerity in his persistence. But then the moment passes, and he expects her to be angry again. But to his surprise, she is more baffled than anything else.

"But why?" she asks.

"Why what?"

"Why are you doing this, James? She's safe with me. You know she is. Safer than she'd be with you, anyway. You have a window here, where you can still walk away. Why aren't you taking it?"

"Look, Sarah, I..."

"No. Now I'm the one who wants to understand, and I just don't get it. Don't you see, it isn't too late for you. You can still run. But you're not leaving. Why? Why won't you go?"

"Because I know what's out there now," he says.

"Do you? Do you really? Because I'll tell you something, knowing, and...and *really* knowing, it's not...explain it to me. Explain it to me, James Ellison. What exactly do you *know* is out there that's so hard for you to walk away from?"

"God," he says.

She stares at him, dumbfounded. Then turns and walks away. He isn't sure if he has repulsed her, or finally, at last, won her over for good.

--

He heats up some leftovers, makes both of the girls eat. But Sarah is quiet, thoughtful, restless. She still won't talk to him, but she lets him change the bandage on her hand. He wonders if she'll keep the wall up indefinitely, but when Savannah gets underfoot while they are doing dishes, she finally explodes. She's edgy, but she has sense enough to know it at least, and after calming the little girl down again, she apologetically declares herself 'tired' and retreats under a cocoon of blankets, away from other people.

"Don't be mad," Savannah tells him. He's fired up the laptop again and is loading another movie when she climbs onto his lap. "I'm okay. It's not your fault, you know. She's sad."

"Yes. We talked about that already."

"Well, she isn't better yet. She loved her son, and then he went away and she misses him."

"Yes."

"I think they hurt her."

"Who, Savannah?"

"The ones who tried to hurt me. That's how she knew about them, isn't it? That's how she knew to come and get me?"

He hesitates, then realizes that if he is to be in this, really in this, Savannah is going to need the truth. "Yes," he says. "They hurt her. John is not the only one she lost."

"Well, she still has us," Savannah declares. "And we're not going to leave her. Are we, Uncle James?"

"No," he says. "We are not."

"So, what do we do next?"

He holds up the dvd case. It's brightly coloured, the robot on the front of it a cartoon. "We watch," he says. "We watch, and learn."

He is crying by the end of it, but not from terror this time. The movie is magical. It's about a lone little robot who is all alone on Planet Earth, trying to make it a better place, trying to undo humanity's damage. He tootles around mankind's wasteland doing his small bit to turn things around, and then a girl robot arrives, and he falls in love...

He follows her to the ends of the Earth and beyond, and the villains of the film almost destroy them before they get their happy ending, as lovers do in film. And the villains? They are the people. God help them all, it's the people. And as Savannah's little hand touches his cheek and comes away again, wet with his tears, he realizes that it's joy he is crying from. He has finally found Sarah her good one.


	10. Chapter 10

Part 10: And a Little Child Shall Lead

He loses track of time. The air conditioner kicks out some hours after Savannah falls asleep in his arms, and he notices, as he tucks her into bed, that Sarah is clammy and flushed. He's not sure if that's from the heat, the stress, or something else entirely. He thinks she is over the fever, but he wonders if her sprained wrist is hurting her. He'll have to wrap it for her again in the morning---or has it been morning already, and then night again? It doesn't cool down here at night like it does in the city, and there are no skyscraper lights to come on at night and help him mark the passage. And there has been sickness, too. He can't even pace out the days by what they're eating.

This won't do. He is a soldier now, he tells himself. In this, at last, 100%. He has accepted Sarah, accepted her role as the trainer, the leader, the commandant of this little operation. Even the sickness has not diminished her strength, her bravery in his eyes. He wishes she could see the potential for magnificence he has recognized in her. Her people skills need work, true. But she knows better than he does what is to come and how they might survive it, and experience is a different but all the more necessary people skill when all is said and done. He has accepted Savannah, the joint role they will play in her life, the need to balance his desire to protect her with his recognition that she is both more resilient than he thinks she is, and that she'll have to push her boundaries in that regard if she is to learn what she must. And finally, he has accepted God. It was John's gift to him, that message, and he'll do it justice, because he knows now that hell is on the way, and it will take his faith in God to fight it.

But this won't do. They'll need routine. They'll need a way to mark days and measure progress, to train, to strengthen, to grow. They'll need focus, and much as it pains him to admit it, they won't have it while Sarah is off-kilter. She is mourning for her son, who for all they know is alive and well in the future and sending messages back to them, but still, is gone. And his absence has left her alone to cope with a decade and a half of post-traumatic stress that, in the absence of her son to focus on, is suddenly hitting home for her. He is not sure what he's supposed to do about this. If she won't talk to him, who will she talk to? And if she doesn't talk, what other outlet will she have for the stress she is under?

He isn't aware that he's fallen asleep, or that he's woken up again hours later to morning sunshine, until he feels, as he has so often during these awkward days, a tiny hand on his cheek.

"Morning, Uncle James."

"Good morning, Savannah."

"It's warm in here."

"Yes," he says. "I think the air conditioner isn't working."

"Oh, it'll come back on," Savannah says.

"Is that so?"

"Aunt Sarah pried a panel open. There were a lot of wires."

That image makes him twitch, though he can't quite articulate why.

"Then she went outside for awhile. She said she would put the wires back together when she came back in. She made me some pancakes. I was eating them before I came to get you."

"Oh."

"I looked over at you and you were all sweaty and you'd kicked the sheets away. I was...I was worried. I was worried that you would be angry it's so hot and that you would make us leave again."

He puts a hand to her forehead, worried for a moment that she's still feeling ill. "You're not ready to move, Savannah?"

"Are you?"

He surveys the hot, cramped trailer, then shrugs. "Hadn't thought about it much. I had assumed we would want more space at some point."

"No," Savannah says. "I don't think space would be good right now. We have to stay together, Uncle James."

He's startled by her decisiveness. "Is that so?"

She slides off the bed, slips on her shoes. "Yes. Yes it is. It's better that you can see her right now. Better that she can see you. We have to stay together!"

"Okay," he hastily assures her. "Okay, Savannah. Okay. We will. We'll stay together."

She puts a hand on the doorknob, then turns back to him for one more reassurance, "So, we're staying here?"

"Yes," he says. "We'll stay."

--

He wanders outside after his own breakfast, and his heart nearly stops for a second when he doesn't spot them right away. But he senses activity as he nears the rugged dirt patch where he's parked the jeep, and he can see from his off-side vantage point that both of them are there. The bandage on Sarah's hand has come loose and is covered with grease stains, the trunk of the jeep is open, and she's wedged off a piece of damaged circuitry from Cameron's eye. She's moving gingerly with her injured hand, guiding Savannah's tiny fingers under a piece of robot skin and helping her peel it away to see the gears beneath it.

"There," says Sarah. "You feel that, Savannah? That little lever?"

"Yes," Savannah says.

"Flick it. There you go. You see the little LED light up?"

He wants to rush forward, pull the robot bits out of Savannah's hand, ask Sarah what the hell she's doing. But something tells him to hold back...

"Neat," Savannah says.

"Now pull your finger back...gently...there. The light is off now. It's a switch, Savannah. See?"

"Yes."

"Great. Mark it on the diagram, then we'll put this part away and try another one."

Savannah picks up a pencil, makes some sort of notation in an open book that's resting on the dirt in front of them. But she holds the part in her hands for a long moment, turning it over, her little brow furrowed in thought.

"Aunt Sarah?"

"What, Savannah?"

"What was she like?"

"What was who like?"

"Her. The...the girl. The metal girl. The one we're looking at right now."

"She wasn't a girl, Savannah. She was a machine."

"And that means that she was bad?"

"Yes," says Sarah. "That is exactly what it means."

"But not all of them are bad," Savannah says. "John Henry..."

"He was bad when I knew him," Sarah says. "Before he was John Henry, he was something else."

"But he changed," Savannah says. "And then he wasn't bad anymore. Would you...would you be less sad, Aunt Sarah? If you knew him like I did, would you be less sad?"

Sarah sighs, pulls Savannah onto her lap. Winces a little as the motion jostles her injured hand. "It's not that simple. I've wished a thousand times that it could be, but Savannah, it never is. It's like that switch she had that I let you touch with your finger. You flick it one way, and there is light. You flick it another way, and the light goes out. You see how easy it is to change it? And then to change it back again?"

"So you're saying John Henry had a switch," Savannah says.

"They all do. They're built that way. And one way, they are dangerous. Another way, they might not be. But if you can't see the light, Savannah, if they have skin and arms and limbs covering it up and you can't see the little blinking light, how do you know which way the switch is turned?"

"Aunt Sarah, do we have switches too?"

Sarah doesn't answer. But Savannah nestles closer, letting herself relax in Sarah's arms. "I'd like to talk about John Henry sometimes," Savannah says.

"Yeah. You and Uncle James both."

Savannah nods, seems to accept this as an answer to the question she hadn't quite asked. Then she reaches behind her, grabs her stuffed monkey and wedges it in the crook of Sarah's other arm.

"You can talk too," Savannah says. "To Mr. Fur, I mean. If you want to. He listens very well. Aunt Sarah, can we have lunch? We've been out here for a very long time."

"Okay. Yes. I'll be in in a second."

Savannah skips happily away and Sarah sits there, still a little stunned by the conversation. Mr. Fur is propped on her knee, watching her with expectant, amused patience; ready---as he was built to be---to listen.

--

He beats them back to the trailer and already has lunch preparations underway when Sarah joins him. She makes no effort to intrude on the tiny kitchen area. Either she is reluctant to infringe on his personal space in the way the confines would force her to, or she is reluctant to allow him to intrude on hers. She sits down though and carefully props her injured hand on the table.

"There's Tylenol in the bag that Edward left," he says. "If that's bothering you."

She neither refutes nor denies that it is.

"It could use a rinse," she finally admits. "And another bandage."

"And would you like some help with that?"

"What do you think?"

It's like pulling teeth. Or worse, maybe---he's seen that done, and this is harder. He is suspecting he should be alarmed at these regressions. For every wall that comes down, she puts up ten other ones...

"I think that if you really needed me to help you, you wouldn't have waited for me to offer. You can sit and stew with it until I have Savannah fed. Then we'll see."

To his delight, this brusqueness has a galvanizing effect, and she rallies, helping him set out Savannah's plate, picking at a handful of chips herself. It's worse to pity her, he realizes. Worse to pander to her misery and let her wallow or sulk. She is more a soldier than he gave her credit for, and what she needs right now is a commanding officer to swoop in and refresh her with some marching orders...

He is less gentle than he could be while he mends her hand, but she stoically endures his ministrations, accepts a packet of Tylenol, then polishes off the rest of the chips and half a sandwich. He takes advantage of this new-found fortitude to clear the air a little.

"So, you were at the jeep," he says.

"Oh. You saw that."

"I see a lot of things."

Her descent back into glum, defiant misery is swift and discouraging. Her eye twitches, and she looks away from him. "Let's not go there."

"Fine. We'll talk about the jeep. What were you doing out there?"

"What did it look like I was doing?"

He forces himself to be patient. "I thought we weren't going there."

She doesn't answer right away, but he resists the urge to jump in and poke her again. He's going to teach her the skill of interpersonal give-and-take if it kills him, and if it doesn't start now, they'll be marooned in this trailer for the rest of their lives, however short that may wind up being...

"We have to know how they work," she finally says. "John, he was always tech guy, and I let him, and now he's gone and I don't know how to do it all. I have to learn. We all do. Or we won't survive."

"At last, we agree on something. And?"

"And what?"

"And do you have any sort of timeline on how much learning we need to do before we can move on from this place?"

"Wow. You still don't get it, do you?"

"Stop saying that!"

"Look, I could take you. Even with one good hand, I could take you. And the ones they're going to send after us once they figure out where they are? They could take all of us."

"You know, I'm not as dumb as you might think me to be, Sarah. I've seen a lot already."

And like that, she closes off again. "Yeah," she grumbles. "So you were saying."


	11. Chapter 11

Part 11: Talking is Hard Sometimes

He lets her take the afternoon with Savannah. They have removed an arm joint from the cyborg's frame, and are disassembling it. It only takes them an hour or so to strip away the skin and tissue, then they have the exoskeleton free and are flexing all the metal bones and fingers. She is letting Savannah touch every joint, every switch, every lever. Letting her see how strong it is. Letting her see how it's put together to move, to touch, to crush. She's pulled out a gym bag he didn't know she had, and is showing Savannah various bundles. He recognizes one of them as a wrapped lump of coltan.

He is busy with research of his own. The perk of having his own computer with him is that her case file is one of the few he scavenged from the FBI, and now that he has given her his commitment, he wants to refresh himself on what's gone on before he got here. He isn't aware that she's come back inside with Savannah until he sees a swath of white in his field of vision, and realizes that her bandaged hand is resting on the table beside him.

"Now, that is not what I meant by learning," she says.

She is trying to keep her tone playful, but he senses that she's really upset with him.

"This isn't learning?" he asks.

"No. It's propaganda. And it doesn't tell you anything about how it really was."

"It tells me that you've been dealing with this for a lot longer than I've been."

"Oh, come on. That's not really what you're reading that to learn."

He folds down the screen. "True. But you don't want to talk about what I do want to learn, so what other choice do I have?"

"That's not fair. Don't put this on me."

"But it is on you. It's all about you, Sarah, and I'm trying to make it about us so that you don't have to stay alone in this, and you're not helping. I can't think of a way to conceptualize what you've been through that isn't trite or underestimating. I need to know what's happened. I need to know where you're at. I need a place in this."

"You have a place."

"As what? Your drone? I'm worth more than that, Sarah. You're resisting me, but underneath it all, you know. I'm worth more."

"Stop."

"No. We're having this out. It's past due. Look, I see how it's been for you. On some level, anyway. Maybe I don't have Judgement Day in my head the way you do, but I've seen enough my own self to have my share of dreams. Give me credit for that at least."

"Fine. One point for you."

"It must have been hard for you," he says. "Going it alone with him is hard in its own right. Going it alone with him, with all of that other stuff on top of it, I can only imagine..."

"Don't," she says. "If you start psychoanalyzing me, so help me god, I'll throw you out tonight and you'll never see Savannah again. I'm not crazy."

"I didn't say you were."

"No. They did. And part of you will always be them."

"That's not fair."

"Sure it is. You live with an obsession for long enough, and it changes you. Mine was 'Stop Skynet. Save John.' Yours was 'Stop Sarah Connor.' It was in your dreams, just like Skynet was in mine."

"Things change," he says. "On your end, too. John is ready to save himself. And you have Savannah to protect. And me to help you."

"But without Skynet, Savannah wouldn't be where she is. It's still the same for me. Stop Skynet. Save John. That's all there is, James. That's all there ever will be."

"So we're just cogs to you, Savannah and I? Just checkpoints on your way to John's future greatness?"

"I never wanted him to be great. I never chose this, Ellison."

"And Savannah?" he prods. "Me?"

She bites her lip, tries to find the words. And can't. She shakes her head, so on the verge of tears that his heart breaks for her. But he has to finish this.

"You need to work this out," he says. "John's future, your future, heck I would even settle for a clear line on your present at this point. Talk to me, talk to Savannah, talk to Mr. Fur for all I care, but whatever's eating you about this---besides the obvious, I mean---you need to work it out. You hear me?"

"You don't give me orders, James Ellison."

"Damn straight I do. And do you know why, Sarah Connor? Because I care about you. You're stubborn, infuriating, inflexible, single-minded, intense, mercurial and all-out annoying, so I don't know why. But I care. So I'll give you orders if I want to, and God help you, you'll follow them. Understand?"

She has nothing to say to that. Yet. But he'll get her. He knows he will.

--

He decides to take Savannah for a little drive. They're running low on food, and in light of recent events, on medical supplies as well. He has a craving for pizza, and the trailer doesn't have an oven big enough to cook one properly. He knows there is a town about half an hour away, and he's itching for a change in scenery. Sarah is still giving him the silent treatment after their little blow-out, and he suspects she is as stunned by his declaration of friendship as she is by being spoken to the way he spoke to her. When he goes to tell her about his little road trip, she is hunched over a notebook, diagramming the cyborg's arm. her work is meticulous; detailed. She's a careful artist, and he has no doubt she'll have an excellent study of the cyborg's major systems when she's done.

"We're taking a drive," he says. "We're low on things."

"Take cash."

"I know. You'll be okay for an hour or so?"

She hesitates, then offers him her first token of acceptance. "Get cell phones while you're out," she says. "One for each of us. We'll have to stay in touch if we're going to start going places."

"Done. Anything else you want?"

"Chocolate," she says. "Good chocolate. No nuts, no caramel, no cookie pieces. Just plain. As much as you can find. And Vodka coolers."

"No to the alcohol," he says. "That's not what you need right now."

He waits for the defensive comeback. She resists. With some effort, judging from the look on her face. But she resists. She's trying, God love her. He appreciates that.

"Fine. Beer," he says. "A six-pack. Between us."

"Coolers. A twelve-pack. But I'll share."

"Vodka, one bottle. And cranberry juice. We'll make our own."

"Get orange juice instead and you have a deal. I'm trying, you know. This isn't easy for me."

"I know."

"There was us, there was them. The world was divided neatly that way. It's hard to think of it another way."

"I understand."

"And 'them'...well, there was the metal kind and there was the human kind, and sometimes the human kind was just as bad. And you had a part in that, James. You had a part. You'll need to account for that, at some point. You'll need to account for it, to me."

"I'm trying to. Everything I've done since I saw what this is really about, it's been me, trying. You've got to understand that. A person does the best they know. And when they know better, they do better. I'm trying."

"And I'm trying too. So that'll have to be enough, I guess."

"It won't be enough," he says. "For either of us. But it's a start."

--

He doesn't want to leave her. Now that she's pointed it out to him, about the phones, he spends the drive to town worrying that the metal will come and the trailer will turn to rubble in his absence and he'll come back not knowing his fragile new world has ended. When did he start caring so much about this prickly, unfriendly creature? When did he start viewing her as his and Savannah's co-family? He barely hears Savannah's chatter in the car; his mind is so preoccupied.

"I want to get some things," Savannah says.

They're at one of those general stores last seen in 1950's movies, and she's tugging at his sleeve. "Uncle James, I want to get some things."

He nods assent while he studies the chocolate selection. Dark Cacao Sixty Percent? Belgian Extra-Smooth? Plain old Dairy Milk? There is one with a Mexican wrapper. He grabs three bars of it, along with two each of everything else. There is something about the Mexican chocolate that he thinks Sarah will find appealing, though he would be hard-pressed to explain just what.

Savannah comes back with three sketchpads, and an armful of art supplies. As diversions go, it's harmless enough, and he adds them to the cart without comment. It isn't until they are back in the car that he thinks to ask her about it.

"It's from Dr. Sherman," she says.

He's startled at the mention of this name. "What is?"

"The drawing. He's the one who taught me."

"Oh. I see."

"He said that sometimes you want someone to listen, but maybe you don't want to talk, not even to Mr. Fur or to your daddy who it feels like is there sometimes even though he died. So he taught me to draw, because it's sometimes like talking too."

He doesn't know what to say that. But he's overwhelmed by a feeling of love so strong---for both of them---that he almost has to pull over until it passes.

"I got enough pads for all of us," Savannah says.

He wants to cry. He wants to tell her he understands, that he loves her, that she's safe again. But she's a smart little girl, and she knows that talking is hard sometimes. She'll forgive him.

--


	12. Chapter 12

Part 12: Morning Has Broken

The pizza comes in a special foil-lined bag, and it's still hot when he gets home. He's getting used to the roller-coaster of hope and fear rocking together through his gut, because he registers relief that the trailer is still standing, but the emotion doesn't overwhelm him as it did in the car while he was driving. He stashes the bags inside, grabs a tarp from the jeep, covers it with a blanket and sets out a picnic on the wide expanse of desert outside. It's a clear night. He wants stars. He's craving space, after days cooped up in the trailer, and the oversized pizza pie seems to demand it. He pours orange juice, plain for Savannah and vodka'd, as promised, for Sarah and himself. He sets out a little desert tray with sampler squares from the different chocolates. He leaves the bag with the new cell phones inside. There is time enough for business later.

Sarah has taken off the bandage while they were gone. Her hand still looks a little bruised and scabby, but she's moving it more easily. The work she has been doing on the tiny, technical cyborg parts has been exercising her hand and helping her rehabilitate the sprain. When she sees Savannah break out the art supplies, he suggests that some therapeutic art might be good for her, and she accepts a sketchpad from Savannah.

"This is amazing," Sarah says. She is savouring a bite of pizza. "I can't believe it was still hot when you got here."

"Magic," he says.

"It feels that way. God, I can't even remember the last time I..."

She trails off, looking troubled again, and he presses her. "What, Sarah?"

"I just...forgot for a second. About all of it. And I can't...can't ever do that. Because that's when they'll come."

"You know that isn't rational."

"And John is out there, and he's...who knows where he is. Far enough in the future to send people back for us. So he's seen it, he's seen the worst, and he's out there in it, and I'm..."

"You're having pizza and vodka coolers and Mexican chocolates in the desert, under the stars. John loves you, wherever he is. He would want you to..."

"No. We aren't there yet, Ellison. You and I, we aren't there yet. Don't talk to me about him."

Well, she is communicating about her feelings directly, at least. That's something. He puts up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay. Backing off."

Savannah has been watching this volley with interest, and when the silence lingers, takes her chance at jumping in.

"Aunt Sarah, did you have a daddy?"

Sarah looks baffled by the question. "What?"

"Did you have one?"

"Yes..."

"Did he sing to you?"

Sarah frowns and gives him a look. "I don't get it."

But Savannah won't relinquish the attention. "We used to eat outside like this, on blankets," she tells Sarah. "My daddy and me. And he used to sing to me."

Sarah is still plainly baffled, so he jumps in. "That's nice, Savannah. What did he sing?"

She hums a few bars of an old Irish drinking song, and that seems to break Sarah out of her trance. "Yes, I had a daddy," she says. "He was an army man. He didn't sing much."

"Did he sing at all?"

"You know, I think he did. We used to go camping for a long weekend, every summer when I was a kid. We'd drive up to the country, rent a cabin. We'd roast hot dogs and marshmallows and sing at the campfire..."

"You know, I think I saw a guitar inside," he says.

"Do you play?" Sarah asks him.

"No. Do you?"

"John did."

And again, he has unwittingly reminded her of his absence. But Savannah is too excited, and he can't disappoint her. Whatever guilt issues Sarah might have about letting go, he knows they owe Savannah this moment. He brings out the guitar, then, in the absence of anyone who can play it, lays it beside the pizza box for ambience.

"Well?" he prompts. "What did you sing?"

"Do you know Morning Has Broken?"

She is a better singer than he gave her credit for, and it's a song he knows well. Savannah loves it; she has the whole thing memorized by their third time through. But he senses that Sarah is holding back from letting herself be in the experience, and she keeps fingering the sketch book like she can't wait to be rid of them. He motions to Savannah to quiet for a moment, packs up the remains of the dinner, then lets Sarah retreat into the trailer for some solitude.

He teaches Savannah to light a proper bonfire. Then he pulls her onto his lap and regales her with the songs of his own childhood and the stories he learned on his father's knee. When he finally tucks her in---to his own bed tonight, to leave Sarah in peace---she asks him to sing for her. It seems they have a new family lullaby, and he supposes there are worse anthems one could have than this one in times like these.

_Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning  
Born of the one light, Eden saw play  
Praise with elation, praise every morning  
God's recreation of the new day_

--

It's morning, and the air is cool again. He wakes to find Savannah's scrubbed, pale eyes watching him intently.

"Morning, Uncle James."

"Good morning, Savannah."

"Aunt Sarah didn't sleep last night," she reports.

"Oh?"

"She's been drawing in the sketchpad. She won't let me look."

"Oh. I see."

"She's back in the bedroom now. She's put up the curtain. I think we should leave her there."

He washes, he eats. Then he follows Savannah outside to the little work area Sarah has set up for them. He sees that she has Savannah making her own cyborg diagrams. He had thought Sarah was handling that, but then he remembers that she told him they all need to learn. He gets the last of Savannah's new sketch books, sits down beside her, and picks up a robot finger. He starts drawing.

--


	13. Chapter 13

Part 13: Be Still, My Soul, Be Still

They go inside when the sun gets too hot for them to bear the work, and Savannah brings the sketchbook with her. He supposes he should feed her something. He isn't sure it's time for lunch, but he seems to have no routine with her yet besides food preparation. So he is therefore surprised to learn that Sarah has apparently established one under his nose. Savannah sits down at the table, opens her book to a fresh page, and regards him expectantly.

"We're doing times tables," she says.

"Excuse me?"

"For school. We did reading yesterday, so it's a math day today and we're doing times tables. You need to grade my work from last time, then give me another page of problems."

She's started up school with Savannah again? He supposes he should have realized that Sarah would have experience with this. She did live off the grid for several years with John, and he attended a regular school later, so she must have kept him up to speed. He takes the notebook, skims the pages and sees at least a week's worth of work covering every curriculum area. The pedagogical emphasis is clearly on skills Sarah thinks Savannah will need---they've been talking about departments of government for the social studies component, and Savannah has written her own little capsule summaries on such branches as the department of Homeland Security, the FBI and the department of defense---but it's all there, from math to music and everything in between. Sarah has written comments on the cyborg diagrams regarding Savannah's technique---she seems to be using the project as art curriculum. And they have just began a novel study on The Wizard of Oz.

He grades her homework and writes her up a page of times table drills. Then he turns to the back of the sketchbook he's been using and begins to write up some notes of his own. He knows many things about departments of government, and he's sure he can make a valuable contribution to Savannah's education.

--

It's almost dark before Sarah turns up again. He has had a productive afternoon with Savannah. They finished their times tables, then went back outside and finished up their respective work on the cyborg's right arm. They'll be ready to start the left side tomorrow. He's packing up their pencils when he notices that Sarah has joined them outside and is gathering up supplies for a bonfire.

"Good day to you," he says.

She nods, but doesn't look up. He pulls Savannah inside, helps her put her things away, then prepares a platter of hors d'oeuvres: baked chips, spinach dip, cheese cubes, crackers. A few squares of chocolate. He pours orange juice, plain for Savannah and fortified with the last of the vodka for the rest of them. They carry it outside together and set it all down on the little picnic tarp, which has not yet been brought in after pizza.

Sarah's got the bonfire going while he was inside, and in the fading light, the flames play off her pale, pinched face in a way that softens it and makes him feel warm. When he sits down beside her, he notices that as Savannah has surmised, she has been busy with the sketchbook, and it's looking the worse for wear. The cover is worn and dented with pencil marks, it looks like some of the pages have been torn out, and there are smudges where her hand has rubbed against the paper. There are smudges on her skin too, and her still-healing hand is limp and loose on her lap. Her knees are drawn up to her chin, and she's staring at the flames.

"I ran out of paper," she says.

"We'll get more. We'll need some for school, I expect. You have a good program set up."

"Yes."

"Did you tell what you needed to tell?" he asks, pointing at the sketchbook.

She shrugs. "I didn't need to tell anything. It was you who needed to hear it." She moves her foot a little, kicks the book over to him. "But I'll say this. I hope it's enough, James Ellison. Because I'm not sure I have anything else to give you. Is there dinner yet? I think I need to be alone for awhile."

And she walks off, and leaves him. The sketchbook glows in the fire's reflection, calling out to him.

--

He eats with a subdued Savannah. She's picked up on both their moods, Sarah's fragility and his restless introspection. He won't open the book until Savannah is safely occupied with other things; he doesn't know what he'll find in there or how he's going to react. But he can't wait to get his hands on it, and she senses that he's eager to be rid of her.

"I feel like reading," she says. She chews her last bite of reheated pizza, then neatly folds her paper napkin and balls it up inside her empty glass. "Can I go inside with Aunt Sarah? I feel like reading."

"Let her rest, Savannah."

"I know. I want to read about Munchkinland. Mr. Fur will help me."

He barely processes the oddness of that statement. The sketchbook is buring a hole in his brain and he has to see, has to know what's inside of it. Savannah goes. He lets himself be mesmerized for a moment by the flames of the fire as he steels his nerve, the book lying heavy and flat in his hands. This is Sarah Connor, he's sure of it. Whatever it is that might be inside of it, it's her.

At the thought, his stomach seizes and he hunches over, retching, his head spinning, his eyes blurring. He manages, with effort, to keep his dinner down. But as he wrests himself back to a seated position, the gravity of what he is about to see overcomes him, and he pauses for a moment of prayer. No, not prayer. The stories of his childhood that he's been sharing with Savannah have been plaguing him almost as much as Sarah herself has been, and he finds himself remembering the bits of poetry they had to memorize in high school English classes. Invictus. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix. Fragments of epitaphs, all of them. Fragments of messages to carry around through ones days. When did his world become so full of messages? God is not so far away, after all. God never was. That was the message all along...

_Be still, my soul, be still_, he recites from memory. His hands shake and he can't get a finger on the cover to open up the book. _Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle_. She made this for him. He's sure of it. Therapeutic though the drawing might have been for her, she made this for him. What had she told him, before he took his ride with Savannah? She's trying. Trying to move forward, trying to heal, trying to let him in. _Be still, my soul, be still_. And he will witness it. Whatever it is she has to share, he will witness it because if she endured it, he will too, even if it breaks his heart because he's growing to love her and her suffering will eat him up alive, he will endure it too. He owes her that, more than anything.

He opens the book to the first page, and there she is. A younger her, a smaller her. The detail is immaculate: the faded jeans, the 80's hair, the high-top sneakers. She's drawn herself small; she had to, in order to fit in everything else that's on the page, but he senses that the proportion is symbolic too.

_Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle,  
Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong.  
Think rather,---call to thought, if now you grieve a little,  
The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long._

There are other things on this page. Faces, places, some drawn with soft lines of sentiment, some with energetic strokes of pen and marker, like music. And a shadow hanging over it all, a claw-shaped shadow, filling in the spaces on the page with pointed, ominous portent. Young Sarah makes him smile, and he traces his finger over the youthful memories she has chosen to memorialize for him.

_Men loved unkindness then, but lightness in the quarry  
I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn;  
Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry:  
Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born._

He turns the page, and there are four of the faces again, one in every corner. An older woman with a familiar resemblance; her mother, perhaps. A younger girl dressed as Sarah herself had been in the earlier picture. He tries to remember, from the FBI file, who might have been among the first of her losses. A friend, maybe? A roommate? The third picture is a man he recognizes from his own dream as John's father Kyle Reese, and the fourth is Sarah herself. She's drawn the two of them facing each other, and there is love in their eyes amidst the pain.

She's filled the page with these four faces, drawing them large enough that every detail can be seen, from individual strands of hair to birthmarks to huge, sympathetic eyes that seem to track the ominous claw-like shadow as it stalks them across the page, shooting strands of energy out of every terrifying metal finger. This was a hard one for her. Some of the lines, especially around the eyes, are wobbly. In other spots, her hand has faltered enough to smudge the pencil. The overall effect has everyone on the page appear as if they are melting.

_Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason,  
I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun.  
Be still, be still, my soul, it is but for a season:  
Let us endure an hour and see injustice done._

More drawings, dozens, hundreds. Scenes he recognizes from what he knows of her past. John's birth. Mexico. Houses of all different kinds, from dirt shack to middle American suburbia. The jungle, at least ten pages worth. John at all different ages. The ones of him are always soft, indistinctive, and never complete. Whatever else is on the page, she draws it sharp, detailed. But John is only half a profile amidst the wreckage of disaster. A face only, peeking out from behind a sheltering wall. Half an arm trailing after her as she punches or shoots or screams. There is never all of him there. Never room for it, either, with so much else going on. With so much else after them.

Sarah is in the drawings too. The lines on her are short, fast, kinetic. Sometimes she is alone, sometimes with people. With men. With weapons. On every page, she is formidable, and in every single image, she fights, she kicks, she grieves. Even in the rare moments of stillness she's chosen to capture, she looks like she's thrashing underneath it all.

There are images he expects to see, post-apocalyptic dreamscapes where a pencilled Sarah watches the sky, her body bent over like she's protecting something with her life. If he squints closely on those ones, he'll spot a piece of John in there, a stray leg with a tiny shoe on it poking out from beneath the shelter of Sarah's body, or a single baby hand clenched inside her larger one. And there are images he isn't quite expecting and can barely bring himself to focus on for more than a moment before they overwhelm him. There is one of what appears to be the most extensive weapons bunker he's ever seen, and she's lying on its floor with a look of resignation on her brave, defiant face while a man twice her size stands over her, a hand on his belt buckle and a look of lust in his eyes. How much has she paid to learn what she knows now? It never crossed his mind to think of it, and now that he has, now that he'll look at every skill and strength and victory and wonder what it cost to earn that one, he wonders how he'll ever thank her for sparing Savannah from having to pay this price to learn it too.

Another one from Pescadero (page after page of those, and in most of them she is struggling against restraints, no matter what else might be going on) of a man standing over her just like that one was, lust in his eyes, one hand on his belt buckle and other on a syringe that he plunges into her arms while she struggles and lashes out against him. There are several like this, and in one of them, a Kyle Reese so lightly pencilled in he's barely there is holding her hand while it happens.

And more than anything else, there is the claw. It's on every page, either in shadow, looming large over whatever action, or attached to larger things which run and chase and crush. Even in the more tender moments---caressing her infant son, watching him take his first baby steps on the sand of a beach in Mexico, a birthday scene with John and herself and Charley Dixon---the claw is there, reaching tentacles out toward her, toward John. It's there, it's always there, and this is what she couldn't tell him, this is what she could not convey with words...

This will haunt him. Every single thing he has seen in this book will haunt his dreams, and he deserves it. He knows now why she distrusted him. He knows exactly what he betrayed. This moment---right here, right now, where he knows it at last---will be a defining moment of his life.

_Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation;  
All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain;  
Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation---  
Oh why did I awake? When shall I sleep again?_

He goes in to her. How can he not? But he tucks the sketchbook into the trunk of the jeep first, not wanting to bring that terrible claw back inside with him.

She is huddled on the bigger bed, wrapped in every blanket she has, and she's trembling. When she meets his gaze, her eyes are red with tears.

"I can't stop shaking," she says.

He climbs into bed with her, wraps her in his arms.

"I'll hold you," he says. "I'll hold you. For as long as it takes."

--

_Note: The poem is by A.E. Housman_


	14. Chapter 14

Part 14: A Final Message

They sleep together; she is still wrapped in his arms come morning. But she greets him with a smile, lets him give her a final squeeze before he hops out of bed to the bathroom, seems more easy than she has in all the time he has been with her.

He comes out of the bathroom, and she's pouring orange juice, snacking on wedges of cheese and helping Savannah mix pancake batter.

"I'm starving," she announces. "Can we go out today? To a restaurant, maybe? And I want to check out that main street you found. We need some things."

"Do we?"

"Well, unless you plan to stay in this dump forever. I had an idea, actually. Of some place we could go. But we'll need some things."

"I think it would be fun to live in a spaceship," Savannah says.

Sarah ignores that. "I'm starving," she says again. "Don't we have any food here?"

"Get dressed," he says. "I'll finish up in here."

He whips up the pancakes, spreads half of them with peanut butter, makes them into little sandwiches. He wraps the lot of them in foil, then transfers the glasses of orange juice into empty water bottles. When Sarah comes out of the bathroom, refreshed, he hands her a sandwich.

"For the road," he says.

Savannah picks up on the changed mood, and spends the whole ride chattering. She wants a doll, she says. A friend for Mr. Fur. She wants a new dress. She wants pink sunglasses.

They find a fifties-style diner, and Sarah shrieks. "There. A restaurant."

She's polished off three of the pancake sandwiches already. But he pulls into the parking lot, helps his girls inside. He orders the large platter for himself, expecting to share with Savannah: eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns and toast. Sarah orders one too, and to his surprise, polishes off the lot of it.

Then they drive into town, and she is disappointed. "What we need is a camping store," she says. "And a Walmart. But definitely, a camping store. We're good for money, right?"

"I've started setting up some things," he admits. "I'll need to stop in LA at some point, make some last arrangements. I've told them I am taking Savannah away for awhile. Out west, to visit family."

"Good. That's good."

"But with her mother's death, she inherits a controlling stock in Zeira Corp. That will have to be addressed at some point. She can't be Savannah Johnson forever. And I might have to be James Ellison sometimes."

She shrugs. "That won't really matter once we go off-grid."

"Oh. Is that your plan?"

"Is there another way? At least until the dust settles some and she's old enough to defend herself?"

He supposes that's a good point. "And you? We'll need a cover story, Sarah, even if we are off-the grid. The two of you traveling with me..."

"You have legitimate papers for that, as James Ellison," she says. "You took in the little girl after her mother disappeared. Call me...call me the nanny if you want to, I don't care. I'll wear a burqa, keep my mouth shut and blend in if you need me to. But honestly, it's really not going to be an issue. We'll go to Los Angeles, close up your business, buy what we need. Then we're disappearing."

The days pass in a blur. She keeps on Savannah about the schoolwork, and the three of them complete their study of the cyborg's corpse. They burn it with coltan and bury the ashes in the desert. He starts giving Sarah lessons on the computer. She starts giving him lessons in self-defense. She's a dirty fighter. He takes his share of bruises.

He decides to go to Los Angeles on his own for several days. He is worried she'll be conspicuous, staged death notwithstanding, and he senses that in spite of her bravado about their future plans, she's still a little skittish about leaving the trailer. They activate the cell phones. They set up a code so that they'll know who they are talking to.

He has not needed to talk about the heavy things since the night with the scrapbook. He has seen the inadequacy of mere words for what she's been through, and has accepted the drawings as her final statement on the matter. But there is one more conversation he has to have with her, before he leaves for Los Angeles.

He is in bed with her; they have taken to sleeping that way, bodies spooned together, hands touching. It hasn't gone beyond that. It hasn't needed to yet. But with his impending absence weighing on him, we wants to set things straight.

He moves his hand closer, traces circles on her t-shirted back. "Can we talk?"

She frowns. "I thought we were over that now."

"Not about that, Sarah."

She tenses in a way he hasn't felt in her for days. "Okay..."

A part of her will always be suspicious. It's in her nature by now, he supposes. But he is ready to believe that she will not always be suspicious of him. He is ready to put himself out there as her equal, her partner. In this, and other things. And he is ready to believe that she might let him...

"I love you," he says. "It seemed important to say that before I go."

"I love you too," she says.

He is stunned by how easy that was. "You do?"

"Look, if you think that means we're going to talk about it all the time..."

"No," he hastily assures her. "I mean, of course I don't expect...but even so, I..."

"And if you get yourself killed, you'll break my heart, you know. I won't forgive you for it."

"I know."

"James, this...this'll be hard sometimes. I tried before. I tried once before, since Kyle, and he..."

"This is different," he says. "I know what I'm getting myself into. I'm ready for it."

"I hope to God you are, because I'm serious. If you die, you'll ruin me. Again."

He wants to tell her he'll never die, tell her that he'll never leave her with Savannah like Kyle left her with John, like Charley left her with herself. He wants to tell her John was right, that she shouldn't be afraid to live a little even while she fights the fight. But more importantly, he wants to tell her that she if she dies, she'll ruin him too.

--

He's in Los Angeles for three days. He visits Mr. Murch at a new office building. He's all that's left of Zeira Corp. He tells him he's taking Savannah out west. Mr. Murch is supremely disinterested. He's busy as a beaver training his new computer tech, a fellow named Edward who is a whiz when it comes to AIs. He tells Mr. Murch that an employee of his named James Johnson will be administering Savannah's inheritance, in trust, and that he's already made arrangements to transfer a stipend to a secured account each month. Mr. Murch agrees this sounds like a splendid plan and all but shoves him out of the office.

He doesn't see Edward while he's at Zeira Corp, but the boy is waiting by the jeep when he comes out of the FBI building. He'd come to say goodbye to his ex-wife. She, like Mr. Murch, had moved on with her life already. Seeing her this final time confirmed that to him. She had wished him well on his trip, inquired when she might see him again.

"Not for awhile," he'd told her.

"Well, good luck," she'd said.

It has surprised him, how easy it was to close out his life as James Ellison. And now, here was Edward, the boy from the future, helping him be on is way in his new life as James Johnson.

He greets the boy with a terse nod. "You again."

"Uh huh. Final gift for you, my good man. To help you bury James Ellison for good." It's a birth certificate for one Savannah Johnson, daughter of James and Sarah. They can travel with her, both of them can. And they won't have to pull out his Ellison identity at all.

"I'm not sure I can pass Savannah off as mine," he frets.

"Just tell them she takes after her mother," Edward says. "And she will, James. In more ways than one, she'll take after Sarah Connor. And it'll be how she survives Judgement Day."

His heart quickens. "So, you're confirming that for me? That she lives?"

"In my future, anyway. And she is spectacular, James. John Connor is not the only future leader Sarah will spawn."

He is not sure whether that's meant as blessing, as curse or as prophecy. But he's happy that Savannah is destined for survival at least.

"Of course, the future hasn't come yet," Edward says. "Not from where you sit, anyway. They'll come after her. The same way they came after John. You'll need to protect her. You'll need to fight."

"I'm ready," he says.

"You will be."

"Edward, does Sarah survive in your future? Do I?"

"Now that, I am under orders not to spill. The future isn't set, James Johnson. No matter how much it might sometimes seem to be. There is time. There are chances. For all of us, there are chances. You have one now, with her, with both of them. It's yours to shepherd that through."

"Give me something to take back to her," he pleads. "Please."

Edward hesitates, drums his fingers on the trunk of the jeep. "She beat the cancer," he finally says.

"Excuse me?"

"She'll know what it means. Or, will mean. I can't say which. But tell her this: she beat the cancer."

His cell phone rings, and he recognizes Sarah's number on the screen. "I need to take this call," he says.

"I know you do. Peace, man. Take care of them."

And he's gone, leaving James Johnson to his future.

--


	15. Chapter 15

Part 15: Off the Grid

She's given him a slip number. He had wanted to meet her at the pier, but she was worried about being exposed, with Savannah, while she waited for him. So she told him to meet her at the marina instead, and she's given him a slip number. But the marina is massive, a labyrinthine maze of walkways and dock lanes and ropelines and loud, salty noise. He suspects that part of this exercise is meant to test him on his orienteering skills.

The boat he finds at slip 44-J is compact, but spacious. A sleek bullet-shaped ship with a flat deck and quarters beneath it. The deck has been stripped of the built-in accoutrements, save for the steering wheel and nav panel, leaving a wide expanse of surface free of distraction and with space to move around on. Sarah is perched on a fold-up deck chair, Savannah in her lap, reading aloud to her.

_"The Silver Shoes," said the Good Witch, "have wonderful powers. And one of the most curious things about them is that they can carry you to any place in the world in three steps, and each step will be made in the wink of an eye. All you have to do is to knock the heels together three times and command the shoes to carry you wherever you wish to go."_

_"If that is so," said the child joyfully, "I will ask them to carry me back to Kansas at once."_

_She threw her arms around the Lion's neck and kissed him, patting his big head tenderly. Then she kissed the Tin Woodman, who was weeping in a way most dangerous to his joints. But she hugged the soft, stuffed body of the Scarecrow in her arms instead of kissing his painted face, and found she was crying herself at this sorrowful parting from her loving comrades._

_Glinda the Good stepped down from her ruby throne to give the little girl a good-bye kiss, and Dorothy thanked her for all the kindness she had shown to her friends and herself._

_Dorothy now took Toto up solemnly in her arms, and having said one last good-bye she clapped the heels of her shoes together three times, saying: "Take me home to Aunt Em!"_

Sarah saw him coming, looked up, fingered the last few pages of the book. Then closed it, hefted Savannah off of her lap, stepped onto the dock and wrapped him in a slow, deep hug.

"They can't swim," she finally says.

He draws her away, takes in her serious expression. "Who can't, Sarah?"

"The Terminators. They can't swim. This will be the safest place for us, until she's old enough to...this will be safe."

He hops on board, let's Savannah give him a tour. There is a small bedroom, just big enough for the double bed, with a door that slides shut. There are two single beds built into cavities on opposite walls. Like a spaceship, Savannah tells him. In one of them she has piled her stuffed animals. In the other, there is a cheerful quilt and a curtain they can pull when she's sleeping. A kitchen area, with stovetop, microwave, tiny fridge and a dining table, big enough for four. A flatscreen tv mounted on a wall. A small alcove with a desk and his laptop computer. And cubbyholes, compartments and hidden spaces everywhere, full of stuff---clothes, gear, food...and weapons. More books than he thought she would bring. More weapons than he thought could fit in a space this size.

"That's my girl," he teases.

"And don't you forget it. I had some improvements made. Solar panels on the aft deck. Waste recycling unit tied into a generator for the rest of it. Put in a pantry, too. Hope you like rice, lentils and raisins."

"Um, Sarah..."

"Oh, don't worry, we'll be dockside often enough. For refueling, if nothing else. But in a crisis, it's good to know that we could survive out there for months on our own if we have to, isn't it?"

"But where are we going?"

"Anywhere we want to. You have so much to learn, James. We need time and space, to teach you. To teach her."

Savannah tugs on Sarah's sleeve. "Aunt Sarah. The story. There were two pages to go. We never finished it."

Sarah pulls her into a hug, then pulls him in and embraces both of them together. "There's time for that," she says. "Once we cast off. There will be time for a lot of things."

"I want to see how it ends. She gets home, doesn't she, Aunt Sarah? She gets home?"

"Yes," Sarah says. "She gets home. Well? Should we go now?"

He lets her be the one to cast them off, to set the ropes free and jump onto the deck, where they are waiting to pull her in.

They are alive. They are together. And they have time. That's all he needs.

*the end*

Note: Sarah reads to Savannah from The Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum.

Note 2: Huge THANK YOu to everyone who left me feedback. You guys rock! It really does mean a lot and help keep me writing. So glad you enjoyed it!


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